Stall Rest

By: Twist

I don't even know what to call this. It's just sort of a ramble, started out as being a one-shot about Doughnut Jimmy and one of the other times he treated the Patrician, and then just evolved into I don't even know what. Anyway, Doughnut Jimmy does make an appearance, there's a healthy serving of Sybil/Vetinari hurt/comfort, and a little Grace/Vetinari fluff for dessert at the end. Whatever, somehow I've become obsessed with cuteness and shit.

"(573): They're calling for 20 inches of snow but I'll have a dirtbike for emergency trips to the liquor store. Even if I crash it won't hurt."

- Texts From Last Night

-()-

"Hells bells! What did that to his leg?"

"That's the gonne for you – sort him out!"

Lord Vetinari vaguely remembered Commander Vimes shouting that, but it was a bit foggy. He then had presumably remained conscious for some time, although he had no memory of that whatsoever. While he knew that it was because of all the blood he'd lost, it was still unsettling.

His first memory was waking up – although he wasn't sure if he'd actually woken up or just drifted back to awareness – in the University, Sybil leaning over him, all in white. She'd smoothed his hair down and smiled and said "Hey."

"Hi," he recalls mumbling. He was shivering. She pulled a blanket over him.

"The Arch-Chancellor says you're going to be fine," she'd whispered, one hand on his shoulder. "You need rest and a doctor to get that slug out of your leg. We have someone coming from the Palace now, to get you."

"Who?" Why had that been important? It wasn't as if he were about to walk home.

"One of your clerks volunteered, said he'd bring a spare carriage 'round himself." Her brow furrowed, and she bit her lip. "Roger? No, no Rumpus . . . I'm sorry, he had a bit of a funny name."

"Rufus. Rufus . . . Drum . . . something." He'd shivered again and Sybil had pulled the blanket a little tighter. "Am I dying?" He'd asked, with the blatant honesty of someone who was probably about to.

"No! No, you'll live," Sybil chuckled. "Ridcully saw to that. But you will feel pretty dreadful for a while, I'd imagine. You've been bleeding quite a bit." He tried, weakly, to sit up and inspect the damage, but Sybil's hand on his shoulder was too much to overcome. "Stay down, last time you tried to get up you passed out." Oh, so that's what happened.

"Am I still bleeding?"

"No, not much."

"Is it . . . bad?"

Sybil looked at him and smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. That was answer enough. "It's not good."

He laid there, still, for a moment, before another thought occurred to him. "Are you married now?"

She laughed this time, a genuine laugh. "Yes, we did manage to get that business all sorted eventually. Yes, Havelock, I'm married now. You slept through it."

"Was I there?"

"No, we weren't about to move you, not in your condition. Certainly not for something silly, like a wedding."

"That's not silly, not when it's yours," he protested. "Where's Vimes?"

"Getting everything sorted out, like always." She turned to the door for a second, nodded to someone outside, and turned back. "Fine by me, gave me a minute to check on you. Your coach is here." She slid her arm under him. "Now, when you sit up I'm told you'll pass out again. You really did lose quite a lot of blood, Havelock."

"Sorry," he mumbled. As promised, the minute he was in a position remotely resembling vertical, a light, soaring feeling washed over him, and he slumped into Sybil's shoulder.

-()-

When Vetinari woke up the next day, there was a man leaning over him, sucking his teeth thoughtfully. The clerk – Drumknott – was hovering nervously in the background.

"Did he get kicked, then?" the strange man asked. "Looks like a nasty kick."

"No, no he was shot, like I said," Drumknott replied, somewhat testy.

The man straightened and put his fists on his hips. "Have you jogged him up and back to see if he's sound yet?" He looked to Drumknott, who gave the man an incredulous look. "That'll be a no then, eh? Probably for the best." He picked up his bag and made for the door. "Can't do a thing for it besides keep it clean – stitching will just have it healing all the wrong way 'round. Stall rest him for a month, light handwalking on soft ground for exercise. Next month I'll stop by and we'll jog him 'round a bit." He lowered his voice and said to Drumknott, "I can get him pasture sound, but I don't think he'll be racing fit any time in the future."

"Ah," Drumknott said, expression carefully neutral. "What a shame. Well, we'll have to take it one day at a time. Thank you, Doctor."

"Case like this, putting him down may be the only way, if you're looking to save a bit of money," the man said with a heavy sigh. "Unsoundness doesn't win races."

"Yes, we'll think about it, thank you," Drumknott muttered to him, pushing him out the door.

"I'll send you the bill then, shall I?" The door closed with a snap.

"Sorry about that sir, he's a bit strange but he's a good doctor, really," Drumknott said quickly, by way of apology. "Drumknott, sir, Rufus Dru –"

"I know who you are," Vetinari said, waving a hand, somewhat taken aback by how rough he sounded.

"Ye – es, well, with you not having any personal staff to see to you right now, I thought it would be best someone took the initiative." He stood straight, hands clasped behind his back. "Is there anything you require?"

Vetinari looked the young man over, eyebrows raised. Yes, he desperately wanted to say. Yes I'd like a hot water bottle and a cup of tea and some blasted aspirin or something and I'd very much like not to have been shot. "Did the doctor manage to acquire the slug?" he asked, instead.

"Ah, yes, sir." Drumknott plucked a misshapen lead blob from the side table and showed it to the Patrician. "It was intact, which the doctor did say was a good sign."

"Capital." He shifted slightly in the bed and tried to sit up.

"Lady Sybil said you were to stay in bed, sir." Drumknott quietly set the slug back into the little dish it had been in before, as Vetinari slumped back weakly. "She also said you wouldn't much like that."

"How . . . accurate."

"I took the liberty, sir, of having some tea and broth brought up." His eyes flickered for a moment, out of nerves, Vetinari recognized. "The doctor also prescribed a hot water bottle and some aspirin should you require them." Vetinari looked to the side table where, on a tray, a bowl of broth, a cup of tea, two little white caplets and a hot water bottle all seemed to be cheerfully waiting for his attention. "I also brought some of the more urgent summaries of the day's events, should you feel prepared to attend to them." And, yes, that explained the stack of papers.

"Very good, Drumknott," he managed. "Capital. And now, if you please, I would like some privacy."

"Certainly, sir." Drumknott nodded and turned on a heel, leaving the room in silence. "I shall be outside the door, should you require anything, sir." The door opened and closed. Vetinari lay there, stunned.

How had he not noticed that boy before? He shook his head and slowly, gingerly, sat up, slouching gratefully back against the wall when he'd managed it. He took the tea and the aspirin together before sipping at the broth a little. In the late afternoon light coming through the window, the little lead slug glinted sullenly.

Cautiously, he set the bowl back down and decided that there was nothing left to wait for but to look. He didn't want to look, in the same way that a child will stubbornly believe that denial or simple ignorance of a truth will make it untrue. He also very much wanted to look, if only to assess the damage. He twitched the blankets back.

"It's not good," Sybil had told him. Well. That was a bit of an understatement, even through the light trousers, and all wrapped in bandages. He tugged the blankets back up and slid down the wall, letting himself collapse into the pillows. He shivered and pulled the blankets up higher.

He might have died. Thank the gods for the assembled Ridcullies.

As if in a dream, he pulled the hot water bottle from the side table and let it rest on top of his leg, a bit above the . . . wound. 'Wound' was important right now, because half of his brain was insisting that 'decimated remains' was more appropriate. It was a little dramatic, and certainly wasn't helping anything. After all, he still had a leg, didn't he? That was something, at least.

Paperwork. That was the trick right now. Nothing like a budget report to get your mind off of . . . a wound.

That night, Drumknott came in to clear up the mess. Half of the paperwork had been read and signed off on. He smiled. Lady Sybil was right. "Normal people would mope and wallow," she had told him matter-of-factly, when they'd managed to get the man into the coach, "Havelock will pretend like nothing's wrong. Let him get on with it, he'll sort it out himself."

-()-

Lady Sybil visited on the second day. Vetinari looked up from his paperwork when Drumknott showed her in. "How is he keeping you in bed?" she joked, sitting down next to the man. "I thought for sure you'd be in your office by now."

"I did too," he muttered, laying the papers aside. "It's bloody inconvenient, is what this is."

"How are you feeling?"

"Largely fine, with one significant exception."

"Have you tried to get up yet?"

"That would be a definite negative, Sybil."

"Can I have a look?" He thought about it. "The dressing probably needs to be changed, anyway," she volunteered. That would be more acceptable.

"Yes," he said slowly. "Yes, you're probably right."

"I know I'm right," she told him, producing gauze and bandages from who-knew-where. "I doubt you've let anyone else touch it since you woke up yesterday, and that's a bit long. Trousers down, then, don't be shy." She caught his expression. "Oh please, Havelock, I've known you forever. Patrician or not." She smiled while he grudgingly and gingerly did as ordered. She took a breath. "Oh, Havelock."

"You did say it wasn't good." He unwound the bandage, not looking at her.

"The doctor got the slug out, did he?" She didn't wretch, or even flinch. Years of dragon-keeping had exposed her to far worse than his injury – at least his internal organs were all in the right places, and not flung haphazardly around the room. "Cleaned it up too, by the looks of it." She pulled a cloth and a bottle of peroxide over. "Don't think about this too much."

"How's being married?" he asked, not watching what she was doing. It stung, a lot.

She sighed. "Very much the same as it was before, and yet it's totally different. It is nice having Sam around more, though." She sniffed and dabbed at the injury with the peroxide-soaked cloth. Aside from him twisting a hand into the sheets, there was no change in his body language or expression that might have suggested it hurt. "I do think he's a bit bored, though."

"What makes you say that?"

"He helped me clean the dragon pens this morning, for a start. Never had the slightest interest in dragons. And he was trying to determine which ones were the trouble makers."

"How very unsurprising," he chuckled. She packed a wad of gauze into the injury and handed him the roll of bandages.

"Wrap yourself up. We're getting you out of bed."

"Huh?" He coughed. "I mean, what?"

"I didn't stammer." She stood back while he finished up. "Won't do you any good, laying in bed, I don't care what the doctor said."

"With all due respect, Sybil, I haven't sprained my ankle – I'm inclined to believe staying down is the better option."

She frowned. "That's not like you." He watched her for a minute before she shrugged and turned, heading for the door. "I'll send your clerk for your lunch, then, and be on my way. You're obviously still too ill."

"Wait." He sighed. "I hate it when you do that. I'm not completely helpless, you know." He slid to the edge of the bed and scowled at her. "I still think this is a bad idea, for the record."

"Well, only one way to find out." She held out her hands. "You know, when the dragons aren't feeling well, I've found a brisk walk often perks them right up. Prevents moping, in my experience."

"I'm not moping," he grunted, attaining a more-or-less upright position, leaning on Sybil. "And nothing about this is going to be brisk."

"Havelock it's not a broken leg, you're being just a bit of a baby about all this." She giggled when he prodded her in the side. "Ah, move away then?"

"No, wait." He clung to her shoulder like a slightly-more-dignified limpet. Slightly more dignified. "Alright, maybe a bit. But this is uncharted medical territory!" She watched as he cautiously tested the leg and winced. "Everyone else that got shot died."

"Captain Carrot didn't."

"He got shot?"

"Yes, he threw himself across you. Hit him in the shoulder." She stepped away. "He's being much less dramatic about it."

"He's also twenty years old. I am not." He paused. "And he doesn't need his shoulder to walk. Did you just say I'm being dramatic?"

"His girl . . . his friend, that new Lance-Constable, got shot, too, Havelock," she said severely. "He carried her back to the watch house."

"Ah, well, she's been up and about for some time now, I'd imagine." He caught Sybil's look. "You didn't think I knew?"

"Sam thought he had to hire her because she's a woman!"

"She is."

"You know what I meant." She gestured. "Alright, you, walk toward me."

"You don't think you're a bit far off?"

"No, Havelock."

"Sybil."

"I'll have none of that." She crossed her arms. "It's this or be a bedridden wretch for the next few days, at which point I'm sure someone will try to assassinate you or the City Council will come up with something about you not being fit to fulfill your duties and you'll be out of a job. Now come on."

"That's not fair." He glowered at her for good measure but, finding no sympathy, cautiously took a step forward, putting as little weight on his left leg as was humanly possible.

"Good, now try it without hopping."

"I didn't hop!"

"You practically did, and you've only moved about six inches." She watched him, patient. "Go on, be a bit brave, would you? You're a bit of a wuss."

"I am not a bit of a wuss," he growled, taking a bigger step forward. She caught him when the leg gave out. "I did tell you, I hate to say it."

"There is this thing, and I am aware that this may be an alien concept to you, Havelock, but it is referred to as a 'happy medium'. In your case, perhaps something a bit more than hopping, but a bit less than just ignoring your injury. Normal people call this limping."

He shook a finger at her. "I could very possibly have you hung. I'm sure I could think of some kind of charge."

"Not a good career move," she told him, brusque. "Sam would be most unhappy, and right now he can run faster than you. He's quite good with a pitchfork, I'd imagine his skill with an axe would be about equivalent." She took a step back, held out a hand and gentled her tone. "Come on, Havelock, this is important."

"I know it's important." He limped forward enough to grab her. She pulled him closer. "It hurts though."

"Men," she mumbled, brushing some invisible lint off his black shirt. "Anyway, now that you're up and debatably mobile, go have a wash." She pointed to the bathroom. "No arguments."

He gave her a look before limping off, leaning on whatever piece of furniture or architecture was convenient. "Gods save your hypothetical children. I don't think I could take this every day." The door closed behind him, and Sybil straightened up the papers, stacking them neatly on his desk.

"I do hope those papers were as disorganized as they looked," she called. The door to the bathroom opened and he leaned out, toothbrush in hand.

"Did you move them?"

"I stacked them."

"They were . . ." He caught her faint smile and raised eyebrows and elected not to go on, instead shoving the toothbrush back into his mouth and shutting the door with rather more force than was strictly necessary.

"You are testy when you're ill, you know that?"

"Because I'm never ill – I don't have the benefit of experience!"

"You are such a compulsive liar. What about this past winter?" She sat down in his chair and leaned back. "Poor Sam thought you were going to have him imprisoned because he was fifteen minutes late."

"I never did." He pulled the door open again, leaning on the frame. "Right, anything else you'd like me to do your ladyship?"

"Did you wash your face?"

"Honestly, woman, I'm not five."

"I'll not hear another word." She pointed to the bathroom. "Get on with it."

It was rather a while later when he re-emerged, hair damp. Sybil helped him back to the bed. "There, now I'm sure that feels much better." He grumbled something noncommittal. "How's the leg?"

"Hurts."

"You were walking fairly well, though," she said, as he sat down. "Limping, anyway. You might want to lend thought to a cane, you know."

"Those are for old people," he pointed out, horror creeping in.

"Just a thought, that's all," she said gently. "Do you want your paperwork?"

". . . Fine." He sighed. "Thank you for stopping by, you insufferable woman. I do hope you weren't busy or anything."

She dropped the papers into his hands. "Not at all. Was just going to spend the afternoon with the dragons and Sam." She sighed. "He gets a bit bored if I don't keep him entertained. I do have to say, he's been a bit underfoot."

"I didn't think retirement would suit him." Vetinari pulled a pen from the side table. "Have you said anything to Captain Carrot?"

"Yes, I stopped by the watch house earlier. Would cause a bit of a dust-up should he come back, though – Carrot would demote himself." She shrugged. "Didn't sound particularly wise."

He looked up, chewing the end of his pen thoughtfully. "Well, there might be something." He caught her expression. "I don't know if there is, but let me think about it."

"Ah, and Drumknott asked me to tell you that you have a meeting with Captain Carrot tomorrow at ten. In your office," she added.

"Was that scheduled?"

"Not until Captain Carrot stopped by today. Drumknott turned him away." She watched him tense. "I wouldn't worry about it too much, Havelock."

"No . . . No, not worrying. Not at all." He coughed. "Certainly not about . . . Captain Carrot. No." The bedsprings squeaked as she sat next to him. "What?"

"I don't think you need to worry, Havelock." She patted him gently on the knee. "I know what you're worried about and I'm going to tell you now, stop it."

"Who said I was worried? I'm not worried." She raised an eyebrow and he slumped. "Alright, maybe I'm a bit concerned. It's not an ideal situation."

"Of course it isn't, but there's no need to worry about something that doesn't exactly exist, you know?" She rubbed his shoulder. "I'm sure you boys will figure it out." She hugged him, briefly, and stood, brushing the front of her dress. "Right, well, you have work to get on with and I need to entertain my husband. I'll send Drumknott word you're ready for your lunch. Anything in particular?"

"I don't suppose something other than soup could be arranged?" he asked, hopeful. "I was shot, I don't have a cold."

"Depends on what it is."

". . . Cheese."

"And?"

"Nothing else. Just uh, like half a wedge of cheese." He relented a little under her glare. "You can put vegetables around it if it makes you feel better."

"You will have vegetable soup and there will be no arguments," she told him severely. "Honestly, your ability to feed yourself is embarrassing."

"Can I at least have the cheese with the soup?"

"No." She smiled briefly at him over her shoulder, before finally turning and walking from the room.

-()-

It took him a while to adjust. Sometimes, at first, he'd forget, and stumble. The cane was as much a reminder to him as it was an aide. It was nearly an entire year before he felt confident enough to try any sort of rooftop excursion, and that was done with caution, over a route he was entirely comfortable with. It went slowly. As time went on, the whole issue became less of a concern, and more a fact of life. He had a limp, the end, lots of people had a limp.

Grace brought it up one day, when it was snowing heavily outside and they were lying in her bed together, flipping through a glossy gossip magazine. "Did it hurt?"

"Hm? Did what hurt?" She laid a hand on his thigh. "Oh. Oh, yes. A lot."

"Does it still hurt?"

"Sometimes." He rolled onto his back and shrugged a little. "Depends on the weather, all that."

"Does it hurt now?"

"Sort of. You get used to it, after a while."

She watched him for a minute. "Who took care of you?"

"Huh?" He propped himself up on his elbow. "Why do you think I needed taking care of?"

She poked him in the chest. "Because I know how you get when you're ill, you big wimp. All laying around, acting like Death is knocking on your door. You're dramatic."

"Always people are telling me I'm dramatic. I'm not dramatic!" He squirmed when she poked him again. "Sybil and Drumknott. Mostly Drumknott, that's when I first noticed him. Sybil would yell at me about every other day for the first week or so."

"Good for her." Grace settled in next to him. "Were you upset?"

"Of course I was upset, I had half of my thigh blown off." He waved his hands vaguely. "And there was everything else that came with that, free of charge."

She buried her face in his shoulder and sighed, smiling a little. "I kind of like you better with the gimp. It's cute."

"I don't know if cute would be the word I'd use."

"You're an inspiration to gimpy people everywhere. If you can be the Patrician, they can too."

"I didn't come this way. Running speed was a requirement, at the beginning." Grace pulled the blanket over the two of them.

"I've noticed it's not as bad in public. Sometimes you don't even limp at all." She looked to him. "Do you fake it?"

"No, but that's the idea." He tapped her nose. "Politics, Grace. It's all about politics. You have to make people wonder."

"How does that even matter, though?"

"It really doesn't, until it does."

"You're not making sense."

"Politics doesn't make sense." She shoved his shoulder. "What?"

"Now you're being obtuse."

"I'm tired of talking about this. What famous people are pregnant?"

"The von Lipwigs are. Again." He threw an arm across her and snatched the magazine. "I'm not lying."

"They just had one!"

"Yes. And sometimes people want more than one child, although I'd imagine if they knew what they were in for later on they'd forego the subsequent offspring." She smirked. "You think they'll ask you to be the godfather again?"

"Gods I hope not." He flipped through the magazine. "I'm going to be godfather to half the damn city at this rate."

She watched him for a minute. "I think you might already be."

"Well thank the gods no one else shares that sentiment, I'd never get any peace." He smirked. "Or they'd be trying to ask me for favors. Which happens now, actually."

"Doesn't it have to be on the day of your daughter's wedding?"

"Yes, but they'd probably figure out my aunt's birthday or something and just go with that." He looked over as she moved closer to him, her eyes closed. "What?"

"I'm glad you don't have any illegitimate children."

"Yes, me too." He licked a finger and turned a page. "Makes up for everything else, I suppose."

"Yes. 'Workaholic, gimpy, skinny bastard, no illegitimate children, unpredictable hours, seeks single female with crossword obsession, likewise no children. Must tolerate rambles about Ankh-Morpork and rare assassination attempts.' I was always looking for that personal ad."

"You make it sound as if I have no redeeming qualities. I'm hurt."

"Of course you have redeeming qualities, they're just not readily apparent. You're a bit like an onion."

"An onion?"

"You have layers."

"There are other things with layers that would have been less offensive." He laid the magazine aside and folded his hands on his chest. "7-layer dip has layers. Parfaits have layers. Cakes have layers. Ankh-Morpork has layers, and plenty of them. The Undertaking's going to be stuck under Broad Way forever at this rate, if we keep finding more layers . . ."

"Please don't talk about the city," she murmured sleepily. "I can't sleep when you ramble."

"I can't believe you compared me to an onion."

"Alright, you're like the city. Now shut up and go to sleep."

"Ankh-Morpork never sleeps." He fought back a yawn. "Not even naps."

"Good for it. You, on the other hand, are incapable of managing your own sleep schedule." For the past minute or so, she'd been running her hand through his hair. This was her secret weapon, discovered fairly early on in the relationship and used sparingly. Two minutes, and he'd be out like a light. "Take a nap, get up, go back to work."

He did yawn this time, stretching a little and moving to a more comfortable position, Grace laying up snug against him, still tiredly rubbing his hair. "Okay."

-()-

Eff I can't help how damn adorable they are, how does every fic end like that?

Anyway, review, I have finals and reviews make me happy.